Doodles In The Margins
by Peppery Mints
Summary: Alternate Universes/one-shots/spinoffs from the main story, 'How to Survive in Middle Earth When You're a Teenaged Girl'. Different pairings, mostly fluff, completely pointless.
1. We Are a Family

**We Are A Family**

_(Éomer X Cilla)_

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Springtime in Rohan meant many things—it meant plowing, the smell of freshly tilled earth, of foals and regrowth and greenery springing forth. The listless gray plains were being refreshed by the lush green grass and new clover that was beginning to grow. It meant birdsong and damp eastern winds, and construction and burials and so many other different cycles of life. Éomer had seen almost thirty springtimes in his life, and it remained his favorite season.

This year, springtime meant the birth of his first child.

Éomer smiled to himself and stroked the nose of his horse. After the War, things had been so different. People were softer, less harsh and callous and the world seemed to breathe a little easier. Of course, picking up the destroyed pieces of Helm's Deep and Minas Tirith hadn't been easy, and reconstruction continued to this day, almost eight years past the final battle. But his uncle had been right in many ways—crops had been resown, houses had been rebuilt, families continued to grow and flourish. And now, finally, the family beginning to grow was his.

He gave his horse one final brisk pat and left the stables, journeying up to the Main Keep, where his wife no doubt waited for him. As leader of the Riddermark his responsibilities took him away for days—sometimes weeks, Valar forbid—at a time. He missed her deeply, and more than anything he wanted to curl his fingers through that thick orange hair and kiss her crooked, freckled nose. Dear Cilla.

It was rather quiet in the Main Keep today, even with the windows flung wide and sunlight pouring in. The servants were suspiciously absent, as well. He took off his heavy cloak and boots, curious as to where his wife had gone—usually she greeted him either at the door or even at the main gate, with a smile and some outpouring of affection.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he climbed upwards until he reached their shared quarters. The door was closed, and no sound emerged from the other side. Was she asleep, perhaps?

Éomer opened the door and saw his wife sitting by the window, twisting her hair through her fingers. With the sun highlighting every color in her hair, her green eyes half closed and her face strangely pensive, it was one of her odd, silent moments. After the War, these occurred every so often; Éomer shut the door behind him with a gentle thump.

She jumped. "Éomer!" Cilla cried, her drawn face relaxing. "I'm so sorry, I meant to see you at the gate, I just got…distracted."

In her lap was a soft baby blue blanket, obviously a gift from Éowyn—he recognized the white horse pattern along the border. He approached her and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"All is forgiven," he said, smiling. "What are you so serious about today, my love?"

"Just…traditions, I suppose. From home." She twisted the blue blanket around her full belly and grinned up at him. There was something a little forced, however, in the display of happiness. "But that doesn't matter! How was the journey? You must be exhausted!"

She made to get up but he stilled her with a gentle motion. "No, no, stay still. I am fine."

Cilla rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself, I'm not some little fragile flower. I'm pregnant, not sick."

That atrocious accent—he remembered how it had grated on him so. Not her first language, and although she showed a certain propensity for Elvish the otherworldly accent had never quite left her Westron. Occasionally she would use some slang term, try to backtrack and explain herself in her own tongue, and then give up and laugh at herself. Although she had tried to teach him English at times, it was quite a tricky language and he showed no talent for it.

"Aye, but you have another one besides yourself to think of," Éomer said, glancing at her round stomach. "And I am not that tired. Come, lay with me, we will rest together."

The two of them lay in the bed they both shared, Cilla taking her usual moment to surround herself with pillows the way she usually did, thanks to the baby. When his wife had meekly asked for another pillow for her back, the servants sent them a dozen, all of them fluffy and soft; Cilla was popular among the servants for her odd charisma.

He tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. "What is it you were thinking of, before I came home?"

Cilla squeezed his hand. "Oh…In my home, the color blue symbolizes boys. Rose is generally left for girls. Éowyn gave us another baby blanket, and seeing the light blue made me wonder what the baby will be."

"As long as they are strong and healthy, it does not matter," Éomer said truthfully.

She seemed distant. "I know. But…I don't understand girls, not really. I had four brothers, remember, and I fear…it's silly. I'm just afraid I'll raise some hellion. I mean, _I_ was a horrible little child. I can only imagine what my daughter would be like. In addition, she'll need to learn all the court manners and dancing and embroidery and politics, and you know I'm not any good at that. Boys as much simpler, they need to learn how to be strong and brave and bold."

Éomer laughed. "Whether we have a boy or a girl, they will still need to learn politics. And just because our daughter will embroider does not mean she'll be unprepared—we'll make certain she knows how to be strong and brave. Look at Éowyn."

"Your sister is an enigma," Cilla said, raising her eyebrows good-humoredly. "She made a little bow for our child the other day. Arrows and everything. Come to think of it, I think she wants us to have a boy as well."

"At least Elboron would have someone to play with," he said lightly. "Faramir says he is growing up much faster than he wishes."

Cilla sighed. "That's always the way." She propped her head on his shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. "Matthew is twenty," she added after a pause. "Oh God, twenty years old. He's in college. And Mark is a senior in high school. Luke and John, they're in high school too. I bet Luke's getting into all sorts of trouble."

She did this every so often, remembered the family that was growing on without her. Whenever she spoke about the family she had left behind there was such obvious love in her voice that it made him feel a little guilty. If she was faced with the choice, he wondered, would she choose the family she lost over the one she was about to have?

Briskly, she shook her head. "That's enough," she muttered, and then said something in English under her breath. He didn't know enough of her native tongue to pick up what she said, but it was apparently comforting, because she cuddled close to him.

"I hope we have a boy," she whispered. "I think it will be. He kicks all the time. Could I give him a middle name?"

Éomer huffed a quiet laugh. "A middle name?"

"Well, maybe not a middle name. A private name then, just for the three of us."

Hearing her mention the three of them in that soft tone of voice made something in his chest tighten. "The three of us?"

Cilla kissed him. "You, me, and the baby. Our family."

_Our family_.

Those words had never sounded quite so sweet to him.

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**Bit of silly fluff! These stories are all AUs, obviously, and each chapter should be considered a separate story unless marked otherwise. I'm a bit stalled on the main story so I figured I'd take Priscilla and put her in different situations to get my muse charged up and running again. **


	2. Fetch!

**Fetch!**

_(Elrohir X Cilla)_

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She stood there, squinting in the sunlight, her skin eerily pale from staying indoors; since arriving at Imladris she had mostly spent her time cooped up in Elrond's study, talking with him and reading his books, learning Elvish and ignoring the large amounts of letters and ravens she received from her friends asking about her welfare. The letters began to pile up, and the ravens chatted with the household for a day or two before leaving with no returning messages. It had taken Cilla months to reach Imladris from Gondor, and when she first arrived she had been a slip of a thing, half-starved, half-frozen, and all-crazy.

Elrond had been patient with her, tending to her wounds, both physical and mental, and for the past two months, they remained inseparable. Elrohir had once asked his Ada why he took so much time with the small, unwell mortal, but his father had merely smiled sadly and shook his head.

Now Cilla was standing outside for the first time since her arrival, barefoot and wearing a small dress that was still too loose on her thin frame. Her hair, which had once been charred nearly gone, was beginning to grow once more, fluffing around her head in orange curls. Elrohir and Elladan were outside, enjoying the summer breeze and tending to their weapons.

"_Gi suilon_," Elladan said politely.

"Hey," she replied, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "Elr—your father said I should come out and get some fresh air."

"Wise advice," Elladan answered, working oil into one of his leather scabbards. "Poetry can only soothe so many wounds."

"I'm not wounded," she snapped, and sat on the ground, tucking her knees to her chest. Eye-level with their blades, she watched them, like a cat transfixed by a point of light. "It's just been…a hard time."

Elrohir didn't even look up. "She is not one for advice, my brother," he murmured.

Cilla glowered at him. "I'm right here, you know."

The dark-haired elf looked at her flatly, raising his eyebrows. "As I recall, when I was last in your company you rejected any piece of advice I gave you."

"You didn't give me advice!" Cilla cried, her eyes flashing with anger, "you just shouted at me and called me an idiot!"

Elladan set the scabbard aside and glanced at his brother. "That does sound rather like a training session with my brother," he said quietly, "but I cannot think of a better teacher."

"Well, you're crazy," Cilla huffed, "because I didn't learn a thing. All I learned was how to fetch an arrow properly."

"If _that_ is not an insult, I do not know what is," Elrohir remarked, "I pride myself in teaching even the most imbecilic."

Color rose to her sallow cheeks as she squinted up at him. "Imbecilic?" she snorted, and added a few choice words in her native tongue. Elrohir replied back with a stream of Elvish, and Elladan slapped his arm lightly.

"Watch your language with the lady," Elladan said firmly.

"Sorry, Elladan, I'll try to keep that in mind," Cilla said, getting up and dusting off. "Since, you know, Elrohir is such a little girl and all."

In a blink, Elrohir was on his feet. Cilla squeaked a little in surprise as a freshly-waxed bow was thrust into her hands, and a tall, dark-eyed Elf glared down at her. "I will not have my skills as a tutor infringed upon in this way. The archery range, whelp. _Now_."

"I am _not_ going to use this," she growled, shoving the bow back in his arms. It was the most animated he had seen her since her arrival.

"Oh? I see. Throwing pebbles from a safe distance, but fleeing when someone comes around the bend. Well, I suppose if you are truly afraid of being unable to back up your words—"

She snatched the beautiful bow back. "Give me that!"

Elladan opened his mouth. "I do not this this is a wise –"

"Be silent, my brother!" Elrohir hissed, and then added under his breath, in Elvish, "I know what I am doing."

"I am _not_ afraid of you," Cilla said, and marched off towards the large oaken tree they used as an archery range. Barefoot, the cold pebbles bit into her feet but she didn't care—anger was thrumming through her veins and there was something beneath it, something cooler and softer and gentler. She didn't have time to analyze her feelings, however, because Elrohir was right behind her with a quiver full of arrows.

"The lady should fire first," Elrohir said with mock sincerity, extending the quiver.

"In that case, go ahead," Cilla replied sweetly.

Elrohir's perfect eyesight picked out minute details of the tree he was about to hit. Drawing the arrow against the string, it pressed against his cheek as he sighted down the shaft, eyeing the white circle on the tree. The target had yet to be freshly painted, and had multiple holes from getting punctured by arrows.

_Zzzziip-thunk!_

The arrow thudded dead center.

"Fetch the arrow," he said, just as pleasantly.

"No!" Cilla protested, her mouth open, "I am _not_ your lapdog!"

"You claim the only archery skills you have are in fetching arrows—prove it. _Fetch_." Elrohir's eyes narrowed dangerously, although the corners of his mouth were still turned up in a smile.

The young woman scowled at him and then flounced to the tree, ripping it out and taking a good chunk of bark with it. "Careful," Elrohir called, "do not damage the arrow."

"Oh, I'll damage the arrow," Cilla growled rebelliously under her breath. She picked up the bow and strung it, her arms trembling only a little, and then sighted down the shaft. How long had it been since she'd picked up a bow? Almost two years. Two years, since the end of the War. The tip of the arrow dipped as she thought about the War, the death, the _scars_—

Elrohir yawned pointedly. "I am an _Elf_, and I fear I am about to die of old age."

_Zzzip-thwack!_

The arrow sprayed splinters as it skimmed the tree and buried itself in the pine tree behind it. Cilla opened both eyes and handed the bow back to Elrohir without looking. "See. Told you. I didn't learn anything."

"Perhaps you need a _reminder_. I must have taught you _something_ you remember."

She gasped and flinched violently when his hands descended on her waist. He pivoted her, digging fingers into her thin hips and making her abdominal muscles clench. "Your power comes from here," he purred, and Cilla was hit with such a wave of memories it almost made her knees buckle. That had been the best time of the War, training with Elrohir and Arwen, fighting and hurting and cursing. Something within her cracked a little, and she drew a ragged breath.

_Relief_.

After all the turmoil of the war, all the battles and the death and the blood, this hadn't changed. Elrohir hadn't changed. She was her old self, or somewhat similar. They slipped back into their groove like two well-oiled cogs, keeping up the mocking and swearing and the genuine respect beneath all the bluster.

His mouth was right by her ear. "Remember to keep your shoulders back and your arm straight. Look forward. Where you look is where the arrow will fly."

The hands on her waist had gentled, and now she was acutely aware of his presence. One soft strand of his black hair tickled her throat as he leaned forward, adjusting her arm, and she set her teeth together. The back of her neck prickled; one eye half-closed as she sighted down the arrow again, pulling back and focusing on the target.

She exhaled, and the arrow flew from her grasp, hitting home on the outer rim of the target.

"You remembered," Cilla said, turning towards him. "I thought…"

He studied her expression seriously. "Elves seldom forget things. Immortality is a blessing, we dedicate our lifespans to the recording and remembrance of all things sacred and beautiful."

The bow lowered and her mouth twisted wryly. "I wouldn't call our training 'sacred' or 'beautiful'. More 'unpleasant' and 'painful', really." Cilla said with a quirked eyebrow.

His hands hadn't left her waist. "Training does not have to be unpleasant. Nor painful. Some learn with a more…gentle touch."

She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. "Yeah? What's the fun in that?"

And then she tugged playfully on one of the slender braids in his hair. "C'mon, sissy, teach me some more archery moves."

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**This stuff is crazy addictive. Fluff, ahoyyyy! It's actually kind of a relief after all the angst and drama.**


	3. Liquid Fire, Morning Dew

**Liquid Fire, Morning Dew**

_(Haldir X Cilla X Boromir)_

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Traveling was unpleasant with companions who didn't pull their own weight. Traveling was boring when you were escorting a noble, since escorts were glorified eye candy until a wild boar came along. When one was escorting an under-equipped commoner, traveling has the potential to become very dull indeed, especially over mountain ranges and through treacherous swamps.

Over the mountains, she froze. Through the swamps, she nearly drowned. Saving her life became a daily chore, and he couldn't recall another person being so obsessive about cleaning everything. She brushed her hair every day, threading beads through it and singing softly to herself in that odd, twangy language he didn't understand. Whenever she stopped to eat she would find any patch of sunlight and sit in it, not stirring until he rousted her thoroughly, and when she opened her eyes that irritable temper would show through. Her temper burned as easily as dried grass, and lingered like hot coals; the Warden couldn't think of a single more unique traveling companion.

All of these things added together created a bewildering, grumpy, laughable young woman with a slightly squashed nose and dimpled cheeks.

There were times that he wanted to abandon her in the wilderness. There were moments he pointed his lance at her face and threatened to spike her if she didn't keep moving. And above all, there were times she talked circles around him, filling his head with mindless chatter and disturbing the beauty of the world around her.

One time, she found a stream full of salmon and refused the move until they had caught dinner. No sooner had this plan occurred to her that she slipped on the moss-covered rocks and went plunging into the current, the wild stream yanking her relentlessly underwater. He had flatted himself against the bank and seized her bodily, dragging her out and onto the bank, managing to soak himself in the process. The two of them had to spend two days drying out all of their supplies, while Cilla continually apologized and looked sheepish.

He didn't know when she started to _matter_.

When she woke him up in the middle of the night, thrashing and screaming, wrapped in her own night terrors, he felt a moment of genuine concern. When she got treed by a savage bear and it took him twenty minutes to kill the animal, there was panic. When she wanted to talk in the middle of the night, wanted to tell him about the mistakes she made during the War and how she had seen more death than she knew how to handle, he didn't mind. The unruly little warrior was like a stout young sapling between a dozen rocks, growing and bearing fruit despite all laws of nature that said otherwise.

Maybe it was the way she laughed at nothing at all, pausing in the middle of walking to catch her breath and hold her sides. Maybe it was how she bit her tongue when she focused, or the way her huge green eyes seemed to completely dominate her whole face when she looked at him. Or perhaps it was just her _mortality_, the way she was so vibrantly _alive_, with every fiber of her being. Mortals lived and married and died in the space of an Elvish afternoon, and they all seemed so determined to bound out and seize life by the nape; he pitied them. But seeing this small window of life, seeing Cilla breathe and grow and learn in a few months was almost…worth the effort. It was worth all the rescuing.

"Haldir," she said once, lying flat on her back looking up at the stars, "I'm so sorry. For everything."

He didn't say anything, because of _course_ he knew what she was talking about.

"It's just…I mean, it's not much farther to Gondor, right?" Cilla asked, somewhat nervously. "Then…then you can go home."

It was true. Gondor was less than a week's journey, and he had been trying not to think about it. Once she was at Gondor, the window would be closed, and he would stop seeing her change, stop seeing her freckled face crinkle into a smile. Someone else would watch her sitting in the sun with her face tilted up, and someone else would count the freckles on her shoulders. (Someone else would also be _responsible _for her falling off of cliffs and setting her cloak on fire. He wouldn't miss that at all. And yet somehow he would.)

"Aye," he finally said. "Then I can go home."

She rolled over, and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

* * *

When Minas Tirith loomed in the distance, her pace quickened. Soon, he didn't have to chivvy her along—she was the one pushing the pace, darting through the tall grass. Her face, which was normally so open and free, seemed to close and she withdrew from conversation. As if reflecting Haldir's mood, the sky overhead began to fill with gray clouds, and rumbles of thunder could be heard. He clenched his lance and stabbed the ground somewhat moodily. It was simply a transport, escorting a rather troublesome young girl from Lothlórien to Gondor. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The gates were high and shining, and even from this distance Haldir's sharp Elven ears could pick out the sounds of reconstruction. Even years after the War, they were still rebuilding, taking the opportunity to straighten the roads and replant the trees, turning the austere white city into a glimmering green paradise once more. Haldir slowed, and Cilla stopped just outside the gates. Above them, the guards on the wall looked down, and lightning webbed the skies.

Cilla turned slowly towards him, and her dark green eyes seemed a little wet. "So…" she began, clearing her throat.

Haldir held out a hand. "It was a pleasure, Cilla," he said.

She ignored the handshake and hugged him tightly, squeezing his ribcage. "Oh, you're a terrible liar," she whispered.

He hugged her back, taking one last chance to catch the sunlight dying in her red hair. The Warden took one last moment to accept her fleeting life, and he knew that the next time he even thought about her, she would be long dead. That was the curse of mortality.

The gates creaked open, and Cilla took a step back, smoothing the front of her dress. The moment broke, and Haldir was suddenly self-conscious.

Behind the gates was the Steward, Boromir, accompanied by a troop of his men. Haldir saw in that split second the emotion flash over Cilla's face, the powerful surge of _adoration—_not just love, not such a vague sensation as that, but complete and utter _reverence_—just before she flew forward and tackled the broad Gondorian. Her legs wrapped around his waist she buried her face in his neck, curly hair everywhere. He heard her whoop of laughter and the easy smile in Boromir's eyes.

The Elf made eye contact with Faramir, the younger brother, and both of them had the same feeling of _we should not be here_. The feeling intensified for Haldir and he had to look away from the two, who were talking loudly and at the same time, Boromir's calloused hands framing Cilla's face. She didn't seem to want to let go of him, and had her hands on his chest, stroking his shoulders, moving up to tuck his hair behind his ears. Laughing and crying at the same time, like she was breathing at last, emerging from a long sleep.

Didn't they just shine? Didn't they just gleam with every shade of crimson and gold, like liquid fire? Weren't they just everything perfect and wrong with human nature, the fact that they were so _fleeting_, like dew in the morning sun?

Mortality truly was a sickness.

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**Didn't expect Haldir to sound so butthurt here, haha, but _man_ did that bit at the end feel good. Boromir's such a darling, isn't he?**


End file.
